Order (n.) is no proof of design in itself: for all we know a priori, matter may hold the spring of order within it just as mind does.
Order (n.) we see failing in both realms — in thought, as madness; in matter, as corruption — so why think it more essential to mind?
Order (n.) must be original and inherent somewhere, in thought or in matter — and it is very indifferent which we prefer.
Order (n.) is bestowed every day without being perceived: a tree on the tree that springs from it, an animal on its offspring, a bird on its nest.
Order (n.) can be what blind motion settles into: whatever forms keep themselves together amid perpetual flux must look exactly as if they had been contrived.